


Dressed up

by TheMagicMeep



Series: Trust and a lack thereof [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, genderbent character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicMeep/pseuds/TheMagicMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scotland dresses up and France has ulterior motives</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressed up

**Author's Note:**

> The thing about this ship is you always end up writing a shopping fic, this is my attempt. It's has been sitting unloved in my WIP folder for months and I actually moved my arse and finished it so I could say it was a welcome present for two very cool people who moved to my country recently.
> 
> There may be a second chapter in the works, we shall see. 
> 
> Anyway hope you guys enjoy it!

Sometimes, Scotland wondered why the hell she put up with France, sure he was good-looking, intelligent, fun and a true master in bed but he was also a right pain in the neck. She knew that there were other women who would kill for a man who could cook as well as he did or come out with something romantic, poetic and deep in the middle of lunch _but_ the fact remained that for some unknown reason he loved to shop and dragged her with him far more often than she was at all happy with.  

She especially didn’t like the snotty humans who seemed to inhabit the expensive, fashionable stores that France preferred. The way they looked at him made Scotland’s hands curl into fists. He was her lad dammit and no one was allowed to check him out but her. She had to resort to giving them the universal “fuck off, he’s taken” glare and scowl threateningly in their direction for good measure.

It didn’t help that every one of these woman seemed to be tall and skinny with perfect hair. They all had stupid smiles, make-up and pretty young faces that Scotland dearly wanted to punch. They also – if they noticed her at all- regarded her and her clothes with a nasty looking smirk, which did absolutely fuck all to make Scotland reconsider punching them. But the looks she’d get from France and her boss weren’t even worth the fleeting satisfaction (and bruised knuckles) she’d get in return.

Then, there was the _other_ thing about shopping with France.

“I’m not wearing that!” she snapped crossing her arms in front of her chest and resolutely ignoring France’s puppy eyes and the blue dress he was holding. It was lovely though and a small, deeply buried part of Scotland’s mind cooed over it franticly. She relentlessly crushed that part under the weight of her sheer annoyance at France wanting to dress her up like some kind of fucking doll.   

France wasn’t going to take no for an answer however – “Why not? Blue is your favourite colour, no?” When Scotland didn’t immediately answer he pressed on “I just want you to have something nice to wear for once”. He accompanied this with the _look_.  “Would you at least try it on?”

The _look_ was only ever brought into play when Scotland was being (at least to Frances mind) unreasonable. Scotland looked quickly away from the vey _blue_ eyes trying to convey the exact depths of Frances despair over her wardrobe and sighed heavily, the dress was pretty but...

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with that party England was talking about the other day would it?” the Scottish nation asked casually. She hadn’t even been invited; she rarely was to these big events. But her brother had, and he had spent a few days after receiving his invitation moping around trying to figure out how to ask Portugal to be his date, while Scotland and Wales ignored him completely. It was hard to feel sympathy when they were never invited to these fancy parties in the first place.

 France’s presence on the guest list was pretty much a given and she had her _suspicions_ about his motives for taking her shopping with him.

 He just looked at her with a slightly sheepish grin on his face.

“If you’re taking me to this thing I could just wear a kilt” she pointed out “it’d be a lot less bother”, but the icy “over my dead body glare”levelled at her made Frances feelings on the matter quite clear. “You always wear a kilt; a little change once in a while is good for you” he said determinedly.

 Scotland just shook her head and held out her hands for the dress.  Sometimes it was worth doing whatever it was to avoid the inevitable week long sulk if she refused.

Ten minutes later she had fought her way through the shop and its expensive attendants with France at her side and managed to find a changing room. Now all she had to do was get into the damn dress and not strangle him in the process.

Fighting her way into dresses was nothing new, though she really could do without Frances cheerful offers to help. Tossing her jeans and t-shirt on the chair she took a moment to carefully survey her opponent. To her practised eye the dress seemed relatively easy to put on, but then again considering what she had been forced into in the past almost anything was a breeze.

She wriggled her way into the dress; steadfastly ignoring France, took a deep breath and faced her reflection. It was… better than she’d hoped and from what she could see it didn’t make her arse look huge- which was always a plus. Scotland had to reluctantly admit that France knew his stuff, the dress clung to her curves, hid the slight softness around her belly and the deep dark blue colour actually did suit her.

But outside the dressing room France had become impatient and whined to be allowed a look, so reluctantly she flicked back the curtain and let him in. Only to regret it immediately when he subjected her to a series of long assessing looks and demanded that she turned around so he could examine the dress from every conceivable angle.  

“I’m not a fucking _Barbie_ ” Scotland growled through gritted teeth as France began his talk about the importance of accessorizing, a terrifying tone in his voice which spoke of endless wandering around shops searching for just the _right_ bag to go with her dress. Scotland had nothing against handbags in general but in her opinion a bag should at least be big enough to actually _carry_ something.

He paused in his one-sided debate on handbags to shoot a knowing glance at her “have you got anything in your jewellery collection which would go with this? I seem to remember a certain locket…”

France was well aware of her magpie like fascination with shiny things and much enjoyed finding new pieces to give to her, despite Scotland’s irate complaints that she didn’t know what to get him in return. In any case it was a far easier topic to approach than handbags were.

“You would know that” Scotland muttered “weren’t you were the one who gave it to me in the first place?”

He just looked amused and pressed a dry kiss to her vulnerable shoulder. She shivered, torn between cursing the dress for leaving her shoulders bare except for a thin strap and therefore easy for France to get at and praising it for exactly the same reason.

“ _Oui_ ” he purred somewhere close to her ear and Scotland quickly reminded herself that jumping him in a dressing room was _not a good idea_ , despite what her body was telling her. Indecent exposure was really very low on the list of things she wanted to talk to her boss about.

France mercifully took a step back and let her turn back to face him “you look beautiful” he told her, his eyes glittering and Scotland felt the blush begin its slow but inevitable march across her face, so she hid her face behind the curtain of her long hair and grumbled “flattery will get you nowhere”.

Which was a lie and he knew it.

“But it’s true” France protested innocently, Scotland chuckled “why do I put up with you again?” she wondered with a smile, looking glorious in her dress despite the stripy socks on her feet which France had been pointedly ignoring.

“My godlike body, it is irresistible” he shrugged and swept his ponytail over his shoulder “my brilliant intellect and stunning wit must have something to do with it as well”.

 Scotland laughed, giving him a fond look “so modest as well”

“Ah but you love me anyway”

“That’s true” she agreed as she bent to collect her clothes, ignoring France taking a long look at her arse as she did so, “now once I’ve got changed and paid for this what’s the plan?”

“You’ll still need shoes at the very least” France offered “stripy socks no matter how comfortable tend to be frowned on”.

Scotland groaned seeing her immediate future being filled with shopping for expensive shoes that would hurt her feet and that she’d only wear a couple of times at most. She only hoped that this party was going to be worth it.


End file.
